From Small Things, Momma, Big Things One Day Come
by StaroftheDunedain
Summary: Becky Brett lives in Yorkshire. One day she gets a letter and her identity and her life get turned upside down. Hey, it's not everyday a girl finds out she's the daughter of Mycroft Holmes.
1. The Letter

_AN: This is a sequel/prequel to my Justified story "Just a Hobby" to explain a little more about Becky but you don't need to have read that to understand this. If you wanna go check that out though... I might be doing something else along that line... Hint hint. Beta by JustWhelmed and reviews make me from a Springsteen song. I _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except Becky and her tee shirt collection._

Even before Becky opened the door, she knew her mother was back from her month with the latest boyfriend. She rolled her eyes and, knowing her mother, didn't bother trying to unlock it. She was just grateful that her mom had been dexterous enough to use the key herself instead of winding up a gin-soaked, sobbing pile on the welcome mat.

"Mum," Becky called out warily, nose crinkling at the familiar smell of alcohol in the air. And she'd just got the flat clean too.

Victoria staggered into the kitchen, clutching a mostly empty bottle and piece of paper, at the sound of her daughter's voice. "Ow'd oo know I was 'ere?"

Through long practice, Becky translated the drunken slur. She could've mentioned any one of the things she'd noticed: the new scratches around the keyhole, the turned up corner of the doormat, the kicked aside mail, or the smell. She didn't mention one. She mentioned all of them.

Through long practice, she dodged the blow aimed at her ear.

"Oo ungr'tf'l freak!" Victoria spat. "Yer father c'n bloody 'ave ya." She aimed for her daughter again and tripped, landing on the floor. Becky would've been a little more concerned if she hadn't heard snoring. She took the paper out of her mother's hand and laid it on the table.

She didn't look at it, despite her curiosity, until she had cleaned up the spilled gin, dragged her mother semi-upright, and practically carried her to bed, turning her head to the side to make sure she didn't choke in her own vomit.

That's when she finally poured herself a cup of tea, changed out of her school uniform and settled down in her makeshift bedroom. Her boudoir was nothing more than a couch, a rickety endtable, and a desklamp in the corner of the sitting room with a curtain to give the illusion of privacy.

Before she read the letter's contents she examined the letter itself. _Expensive, cream colored paper with a Danish watermark. Heavy. Office stationary then for someone very important. Female handwriting, male signature, trusted secretary, possible lover. Good ink, fountain pen, scratches on the paper, new pen. Probably a present. No scratches on the signature, older pen. Definitely a present._

Satisfied that she'd learned all she could, Becky actually started reading.

"Farrow Rebecca Brett,

If your mother has not already told you then I shall come right out and say it. I am your father and I think it is high time I come to collect you.

I realize that this must come as a shock to you. If you have any sense at all (and judging from your school records I know that you have) you are frightened. However, I mean you no harm.

I do not have reason to say this often and I voice the sentiment even less often, but I realized that I was perhaps mistaken in leaving you with your mother for so long. I recently had the importance of family re-emphasized to me.

Goodbye for now. I will be seeing you soon.

Your father,

Mycroft Holmes

Becky stared at the paper for a long while. "That isn't creepy or anything."

The name was completely unknown to her and she somehow doubted that he was in the phone book. "When in doubt," she mumbled, "use Google."

Since there wasn't a computer in the flat, she grabbed her purse, cell phone, and headed out the door.

Since her one friend was on a school trip and no one else would just let the Freak use the computer she had to promise to do some idiot's chemistry homework. She hoped it was worth it.

She still had a mile to walk and it was getting dark so when the black car pulled up alongside her, she tightened her grip on the keys in her pocket and gave no other sign that she'd noticed.

She heard the window roll down and a woman's voice coming from the backseat. "Good evening." When Becky said nothing the strange woman continued. "Farrow."

Becky stopped and looked at the rolled down window. The inside was so dark and so was the street that she couldn't see anything definitive. "Who are you?"

"Althea Jones, I work with your father. Please get in the car so that we can have a proper chat."

Becky snorted. "It doesn't take 1.5 seconds to remember your own name. Good night, not-Althea."

"I really do work for your father."

"You probably do. But I still don't trust you. Or my father." She resumed walking. "Again, good night."

The car sped in front of her then stopped and the driver stepped out. The very large driver. The former boxer, exmilitary, currently armed driver.

"I can make you, you know," not-Althea said in a singsong voice from the backseat.

Not being a complete idiot, Becky got in the other side as ordered. "By the way, you can't make me do anything." She pointed at the driver. "He can."

Not-Althea just smiled smugly without looking up from her pda.

"This ride is going to be too much fun."

It was a long one. From Becky's street in Yorkshire to what looked like a very unstable office building still under construction in London. Becky was led to a large room with water dripping from the pipes and a single, metal folding chair in the middle.

Five feet in front of the chair was a man. He was wholely unremarkable looking, of medium height, plump, and balding. He was leaning jauntily on a black umbrella.

"Have a seat, Farrow," he said in a voice that was an odd mixture of condescension

and command.

"I'd rather stand, thanks," she replied, "and I go by Becky."

He actually "tisked" at her. "That's such a common name."

She shrugged, not rising to the bait. "I like it." She crossed her arms in an unconsciously

protective gesture. "So, you're my father."

"You sound so certain. Maybe I'm just another person working for him."

Becky shook her head. "No. We have the same vein running across our middle left knuckle and the same upward slant of the eyebrows near the bridge of the nose. Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft nodded. "Impressive"

"Thanks," she said dryly.

"Continue," he ordered, more interested in her than he'd been earlier. Maybe her school test scores were indicative of the Holmes family traits. "What else can you deduce about me?" He stood up straight and turned around once, slowly, before looking at her expectantly.

"Well, you have a suit of average quality but a silk shirt and expensive cufflinks. You like luxury. So, the suit is to keep you inconspicuous. You obviously have a great deal of power and influence. How I got here is proof of that. Considering you got my school records... Well, I might be there on scholarship, but it's a prestigious school and the parents pay the people there very well to keep our secrets so you're most likely in the government.

You have a brother whom you've seen recently. He had a friend with him, a man. You like this guy very much. You're also fond of orange peko tea."

Mycroft was impressed but he didn't tell her. Not yet. "All true but how do you know?"

"Handkerchief the same quality as yours in your pocket but with the wrong initials monogrammed. Can't have been there long or you would've noticed. Cheap cigar in the same pocket. You wouldn't but it, present then." She pointed at his lapel. "Stains."

He clapped. "Excellently done. A few things you missed but you're still young. (He was pleased to see her frown and try to reason out what they were). Tell me, Becky, would you like some tea?"


	2. Tea and Flames

Ten minutes later, Becky found herself 20 feet underground sitting in a plush armchair next to a roaring fire, a Denby mug of Darjeeling in her hand, and her father sitting across from her.

There were a few minutes of awkward silence until Becky cleared her throat and broke it. "So...may I ask you a question?" He nodded. "What do you want out of this? From me?"

Mycroft steepled his fingers together in an oddly familiar gesture and leaned forward. "I don't know, honestly. But I want there to be some sort of familial relationship between the two of us."

"You didn't want that earlier," she said very matter-of-factly. "I learned how to clean up my own alcoholic mother's vomit when I was four because of it." She took a sip of her tea. "I'm not really angry but I'm not sure I can ever trust a man who leaves his own daughter to that."

He nodded. "I can understand that. I have valid reasons, some of them even concerned with what was in your best interests." He sighed and gave a self-deprecating smile. "But I've learned lately that 'valid' and 'good' are not always the same thing."

"A woman?" she asked curiously.

He laughed. He had an odd, short, bark of a laugh that wasn't entirely unpleasant and wasn't entirely reassuring either. "A friend, nothing more."

"Cigar guy?"

"Yes."

Becky smiled for what felt like the first time in days. It probably was. "Good. I'm not sure I'm ready for a stepmother."

"I expect not."

The awkward silence descended again. This time, Mycroft was the one to break it. "Would you consider moving in with your uncle? And his friend?"

She nearly choked on her tea. "What?"

"You don't trust me. They are still family. You still wouldn't have a lot of room but they do have a landlady so you could feel safe. Not normal." He smiled. "But if you're really my daughter, I'm fairly sure that you don't want normal."

She was willing to concede that point. She was also willing to concede to the landlady. That didn't guarantee obvious safety, but with her mom's steady string of boyfriends, not all of whom drew an age line at teens, she already knew she wasn't entirely safe in her own home.

"What about my mum?" she asked quietly.

Mycroft gave her puzzled look. "Don't you want out of that place?"

"Well, yeah, I want that a lot. I hate it and I hate her. But..." Becky trailed off and shrugged. "She is still my mother and she'll probably die without me there to look after her."

Mycroft thought for a minute. "I can have her sent to a treatment center. She'll be all right there. Maybe she'll even get clean."

Becky thought for a moment. "I'm not going to ask how and just agree to that. School?"

"Transferred to one equally prestigious."

She nodded slowly. "One last thing... If I decide that I want nothing more to do with your or anyone in this side of my family, you all have to leave me alone."

"I promise."

"Okay then." They both stood and shook hands with equally firm grips. It was surreal for the both of them.

"I'll call ahead of you. You can move in the day after tomorrow."

Not-Althea entered the room to show Becky out. As they turned to leave, Becky turned back to ask a further question. "Wait, you haven't told me where I'll be living or with whom?"

"London, 221B Baker Street. With Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."


End file.
